It was the first snowfall of the not-quite-winter. Mid-November. Such a wild card time of year. Sometimes mild, sometimes frigid, always a gamble. The storm blew in out of nowhere, and now six inches of snow covered the sidewalk outside, keeping away the handful of regular patrons we usually had on Friday nights.

I found myself wondering if it was snowing where K was. Was November in Scotland traditionally cold? Given the northerly latitude and longitude, I assumed so. A chill in the air didn’t necessarily mean snowfall, however. They weren’t mutually exclusive. Still, I pictured snowflakes dotting K’s red hair, her cheeks and nose pink from the chill. Was she a mittens or a gloves girl? Trivial, maybe, but I wanted to know.

What time was it in Scotland? It was 11:25 pm at The Imp's Bottle.

Ali Cat stalked back and forth in front of the large picture windows, glaring at the snow and cursing under her breath. Without patrons, there’d be no tips. Hence, no reason for her to be here. A fact of which she reminded me every five minutes.

“This is so pointless,” she muttered for the umpteenth time, looking around the empty pub. “Ugh, this is literally the biggest waste of my time ever.”

I glanced up from my newspaper. “Do you have homework with you? You could do that until someone comes in.”

She gaped at me like I’d just sprouted gills. “Are you kidding? Why would I bring homework to a bar?”

I shrugged. “Just a suggestion.”

Her skinny hip jutted out and she crossed her arms. “Is that what you did in college, Tate? Took homework with you everywhere you went so that you didn’t waste one precious second of your precious, precious time?”

I shrugged again. “Yes.”

“Figures,” she huffed. “But some of us aren’t total losers. Dylan is supposed to drop by. He’s probably late because of the stupid snow.”

“Does your dad know he’s coming here?” I asked. The last I’d heard, the owner didn’t want Dylan McStartsFights anywhere near his bar. Or his daughter.

“What’s it to you?” Ali retorted. “Are you spying for him now?”

“Sorry,” I relented, holding up my hands. “I just don’t want trouble.”

Ali Cat made a show of rolling her eyes, then spun around and took to pacing the floor again.

I went back to my newspaper, not really comprehending what I was reading. Playing over the speakers was “The Waiting” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Heh, appropriate.

Suddenly, the pages of my paper blew off the bartop. The door had opened.

“Damn!” Ali Cat cried. She rushed over to help the newcomer shut and latch the door. “That wind is insane!”

“Invigorating, though!” the pub’s new occupant declared.

I got my newspaper under control and looked up. She was a wild, but pretty woman of indeterminate age. Her face was the sort that could pass for thirty-five as well as it could fifty-five. Long dark hair complete with majestic streaks of silver cascaded past her slight shoulders and down her back. She wore long, flowing skirts, a poofy white blouse, and a red and gold shawl. On her feet were light-weight suede booties. Large gold hoop earrings and red lipstick ornamented her tan face. Most noticeable of all was the utter lack of a coat or gloves from her colorful ensemble. She looked like a modern-day gypsy.

Despite the freezing wind she’d just escaped, she shook the snow from her skirts and shawl with zest. “Wonderful night!” she exclaimed. I noticed she had a slight accent — maybe Spanish or Italian. “Full of possibilities!”

“Yeah, for getting pneumonia,” Ali Cat grumbled, smoothing her hair. “Why aren’t you dressed warmer?”

I cringed. Couldn’t she be tactful? Just once?

The woman gave Ali Cat a vibrant smile. “I dress how it pleases me to dress,” she purred, rolling her Rs. “And sickness doesn’t worry me. It’s not in the cards this month.”   

She removed her shawl with a flourish, sending snowflakes flying. I then noticed the large carpet bag she had slung across her slender torso. It, like the rest of her, was a variety of bright colors. Unlike the rest of her, it looked heavy.

“Has a haunted-looking, dark-haired young man been in yet this evening?” she asked.

“No one’s been in,” Ali Cat answered. “We’ve been totally dead.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Can I get you anything?” I asked, clearing away my scattered newspaper from the bartop. I indicated the stool in front of me.

“Some herbal tea would be superb,” the woman replied. She flashed her smile at me as she took a seat. “It warms the soul.”

“Herbal tea?” Ali scoffed. “This is a bar.”

“And I can make you a cup of Earl Grey, if that’s acceptable,” I intervened, shooting a warning look at the waitress. “It’s the only tea I have. But I’d be happy to order other kinds for the future.”

“You’re sweet,” the woman said, pointing a polished red finger at me like she’d just found something she’d lost. “Muy dulce. Earl Grey will be very nice. Thank you.”

I nodded and headed toward the back room to put the kettle on. “Should just be a minute,” I said as I passed through the door.

“Why aren’t you worried about getting sick?” I heard Ali Cat ask.

“I saw good health in my—”

The door swung shut behind me, cutting off her sentence.

I filled the kettle with hot water and set it on the burner, turning the dial to high heat. The box of Earl Grey was in a cupboard above the sink, and as I fished it out, I noted that the expiration date was still a ways in the future. Only three tea bags left. Maybe I should order more.

Out front, Ali's attitude had gone through a complete transformation. Her initial look of disdain at our newest patron had turned into one of unmasked fascination. “So, you’re like a fortune teller?” she asked the woman, eyes wide. “For real?”

“As real as it gets, my dear,” the woman replied. “I’ve been told by many that I have a gift.”

“Cool!” Ali Cat exclaimed. “Do me!”

The fortune teller tilted her head to the side in a thoughtful manner. “I don’t see why not. My appointment is late, and there are no coincidences.” She made herself to home at the round table nearest the bar. From her carpet bag, she produced an ornamental silver tin containing a deck of large decorative cards. “What is your first name and when is your birthday?”

Ali Cat sat down across from the fortune teller with an eagerness she had never before displayed within the walls of The Imp’s Bottle. “Allison, but everybody calls me Ali, and March twenty-eighth. Same birthday as Lady Gaga!”

I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Instead, I checked my watch. 11:43 pm. I retrieved the cleaning rag from its bucket below the counter and wrung it out. The only thing that had touched the bartop all evening was my newspaper, but I wiped down the surface regardless.

“Ali, March twenty-eighth…” the fortune teller repeated, shuffling her cards. She seemed about as excited for Ali’s profound connection with Lady Gaga as I was. One by one, she began laying cards face down on the tabletop between them. “You are an Aries, Ali. Aries is one of the three signs of the Zodiac under the element of fire. You are determined, headstrong, impulsive, driven, and above all, fiery.”

Ali Cat clapped in delight. “That is so me!”

I continued to scrub the counter.

“You are lively, daring, fearless, and steadfast in your beliefs,” the fortune teller continued. Her voice was soothing and hypnotic; I found I couldn’t help but listen to her. “You have ample confidence and self-assurance. These characteristics, along with your brisk and edgy style, are among your greatest strengths. Just remember, Ali, that this combination can come across as assertive to the point of aggressive, stubborn, or even self-centered. It is important to take the opinions and feelings of others into consideration. Regarding the workplace, you are tempted by jobs in which you are your own boss, as you strongly dislike being told what to do.”

Ali Cat sniffed, and I felt myself smirk. I had no knowledge or interest in astrology or fortune telling, but it was downright hilarious how accurate the assessment of this perfect stranger was about the owner’s daughter.

I heard the tea kettle whistling. Dropping the rag into the bucket, I retreated to the back room. The fortune teller had begun to turn over the cards on the table and describe them, but her words became indistinguishable murmurs as the door swung shut behind me. I placed a single tea bag of the Earl Grey into a white teacup and poured the steaming water over it. I grabbed the matching saucer from the cupboard and returned to the front.

“...would suggest you have a secret,” the fortune teller was saying, pointing to a combo of cards. “A negative secret. One that is not yours to keep.”

“Your tea,” I said quietly, setting the cup and saucer on the tabletop beside her. “Careful, it’s really hot.”

“Thank you, cariño,” the fortune teller said, squeezing my elbow.

“Uh…sure,” I mumbled, taken aback by her response. My grandmother had called me ‘cariño’ when I was little. It meant ‘dear’ or ‘sweetie.’ I cleared my throat. “Um, sugar? Cream?”

“It’s perfect as it is, cariño.”

“Shut up, Tate!” Ali cried, shooting me a glower. She turned back to the fortune teller. “What do you mean I have a secret that ‘isn’t mine’ to keep? Are you talking about my boyfriend? My dad doesn’t need to know everything about my personal life.”

“Oh, I haven’t even touched upon your significant other,” the fortune teller remarked. “This is in regards to the secret you’re keeping from…” She inspected the cards again. “Not a friend… Perhaps a fellow student? No…”

As she scrutinized the cards in silent concentration, I glanced at the spread from over her shoulder. They were cool pictures. Very intricate, antiquated art, but I couldn’t begin to guess at what she was ‘seeing’ in the images.

Ali Cat bit her lip, suddenly appearing uncomfortable. “Forget that,” she said, waving her hand in impatience. “I don’t have any secrets from anyone, other than my dad. What about Dylan?”

The fortune teller gave Ali a lingering look of appraisal. I had to give the waitress credit: I would have squirmed under that gaze, but she held her own.

“Your boyfriend, you mean?” the fortune teller clarified.

“Yes, Dylan, yes!” Ali Cat cried. “What does the future hold for me and him?”

“Do you see this?” the fortune teller asked, pointing to a card in the center of Ali’s spread. The image on it was of a foreboding stone tower in the midst of a lightning storm. Two tiny people, their mouths agape in terror, plummeted to the ground from the turrets. I shuddered involuntarily.

Ali Cat did not look pleased. “Yeah,” she said. “What’s that mean?”

“This is the Tower,” the fortune teller explained, her voice grave. “It represents destruction and dramatic change. You have been experiencing conflict in one or more relationships in your life. To even have a chance at happiness, this relationship, or these relationships, must be reevaluated and brought to an end. And look which card coincides with the Tower.”

She pointed. Ali Cat and I looked.

The card beneath her finger featured a naked man and woman standing hand in hand.

“The Lovers,” the fortune teller said. “Upside down.”

“Upside down?” I echoed.

Ali’s eyes narrowed in fury, and she glared up at me. “Tate!” she hissed. “Piss off!”

“Right. Sorry,” I mumbled. Her tone stung, but she was right: this was her business. I darted back behind the bar. My safe place. Strategically looking anywhere but at the cards on the table, I began wiping down glasses and setting them in the rack. I glanced at the clock. 11:55 pm.

“Upside down lovers? What’s that mean?” Ali demanded of the fortune teller.

“My best interpretation?” the fortune teller asked. Her timbre suggested that she wasn’t sure whether or not she should say. At Ali’s insistent nod, she continued, “Your beau is very bad for you. A negative influence. Negative energy. He has been getting you to compromise your morals and values since the day you met, and the impact of his damaging presence will cause you more and more harm as time goes on. Your relationship with your father will become more strained, as well. For your own peace of mind and quality of life, you must purge yourself of Dylan.”

Ali Cat sat in stony silence for several seconds. The fortune teller gazed at her in earnest. I was distantly aware of the fact that I was staring at them, but the action seemed beyond my conscious ability to amend.

“Walking On Broken Glass” by Annie Lennox began to play over the speakers.

At last, Ali said, “Did my dad put you up to this?”

The fortune teller blinked in surprise. “No, my dear. I have never met your father. I named him specifically because you mentioned that he is the only one from whom you keep secrets. Your cards suggest that they are not so secret as you may think. He only wants what’s best for you. Of that, I’m certain.”

“Wow,” Ali Cat said with exaggerated drawl. “This stuff really is bullshit.”

In one swift, irate motion, Ali jerked to her feet and swiped her hand across the tabletop. The cards flew askew, half of them fluttering to the floor. Ali stomped past me and slammed through the door to the back room.

The fortune teller appeared unfazed. Without a hint of surprise, she began collecting the scattered cards. Her expression suggested that she felt sorry for Ali.

I set my cloth and glass down and ran out from behind the bar. “I’m so sorry,” I said, scanning the floor for stray cards. “Ali, she’s…”

“A typical Aries,” the fortune teller finished for me. “Nothing I didn’t expect.”

She’d already gathered most of the cards, but two lay face down beneath Ali Cat’s now-vacant chair. I picked them up and handed them to the fortune teller.

“Are any of them ruined?” I asked.

She shook her head absently, her gaze fixed on the pair of cards I’d handed her. To my surprise, she didn’t place them on the table with the others, but flipped them over and held them out between us, face up.

I looked at the cards. One showcased a woman wearing a red gown and holding a large golden chalice. The other displayed a full moon in a dark, cloudless sky.

“The Queen of Cups and the Moon,” the fortune teller said. “What interesting cards you have.”

“They’re just the ones you hadn’t picked up yet,” I said, running my hand through my hair. “I wanted to help.”

The fortune teller smiled — a deep, sincere smile that reached her smokey eyes. “And you believe that these two cards just happened to land apart from the others, and you just happened to get to them before I did?”

I shrugged. “Yes?”

“There are no coincidences,” the fortune teller stated, quoting herself from earlier. “Tate— It’s ‘Tate,’ yes, cariño?”

I nodded.

“Tate, these are your cards.”

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